The first to fall were the plants
not by the will of time or fate
but of the so-called gardener
who had stuck them in the ground.
Planted there overlooking the pit
of the courtyard they were ridiculous: a puff of green
around the grey on four rows of thin
earth four failed flowerbeds
if you strained a little sparrow’s graves
not even worms were comfortable sleeping there.
Facing the asphalt downwind from the cars
they appeared to be mocking god knows what:
the nature, the art, the technique of balance.
But they were real
plants with sap and leaves
that really fell off and
renewed
the circle of their
existence their patterns,
being those of trees, always concentric.
The birds that sheltered there
were real birds with feathers and a beak
and even the summer grasshoppers blew
their axillary raspberries that you heard
until they wreaked havoc on your heart
during your afternoon nap.
The plants had roots that burst
the asphalt: they left cracks on the surface
like the cracks on the crust of bread.
That is why they decided to remove them
the little ones with the big:
the thirteen-meters-tall pine
and the rose bush hanging on the gate
(every so often a yellowish hand
would take one and bring it to church
and I who didn’t know flowers’ names
would hate that hand because
it tarnished the death of the roses or so I thought).
But maybe that plant was already rotten
in a ditch before the massacre.
Then it was the animals’ turn
the nocturnal eyes of the house:
a hermaphrodite mutt
a cross between a chihuahua and Tina Pica
a twisted idea in the form of a dog.
It would bark to prove to the world
it wasn’t a Mexican fancy
but one octave higher nasty
so you thought of the rebukes howled
by your phlegmy grandmother
drunk on wine and water whose grandson stole her toys.
That grandmother-dog was so brave
as long as she stayed in your arms and from there
called out to armies and camorrists
and how disgusted she was with her own kind
hopeless dogs and with the miserable
sex they offered her.
An available female and a wastrel
in the tête-à-tête with food
the only male that didn’t scare her.
Seeing her die in the throes of a night
the ever-fainter trace of her breath
rippling across her lip above her teeth
deep down in the paralysis of her eyes
open wide with surprise Doggone it I’m dying—
was a kind of practice for the other vigils.
And a pair of cats who lived together more uxorio
(showing themselves in their righteousness like good bourgeois).
He with the Neapolitan face
running under his cheekbones the agile features
of a comedian: you were reading the joy the anguish
the tedium of the all quiet in the desert.
You had never seen a cat so transparent
so unpoetic.
She swollen like a huge tiger-striped beignet
by way of an operation:
she cat-wife-mother he cat-boy
in slippers with few opinions
and no secrets. He died first
she three months later crushed with grief
like Giulietta and Sandra.
Cats teach you how to die:
just watch them play around on the edge of a chasm
stuff themselves and take out loans on the last day
follow the curve to the point of impact
with the moralist coming the other way.
Finally it’s the people’s turn:
the one who had planted the
trees and the roses the so-called gardener
qualified at least at one time
who had nursed the cats’ kittens
and taken the hermaphrodite freak dog for a walk
the sex that called for the last confidence
of the tongue the deflated body of the father
without refuge between the obscene white sheets
the mother’s belly laying on a plank
and there too in those all too human deaths
you didn’t see the will of time
and fate but another that was not
the one tearing out the roses
and not even the one implied by God
no separation no moral
no farewell no peace
not even the suds of eternity
only a contradiction so better to get rid
of everything that is born and makes noise:
people animals plants
eyes mouths words verses
and their clumsy penchant for absence.
being those of trees, always concentric.
The birds that sheltered there
were real birds with feathers and a beak
and even the summer grasshoppers blew
their axillary raspberries that you heard
until they wreaked havoc on your heart
during your afternoon nap.
The plants had roots that burst
the asphalt: they left cracks on the surface
like the cracks on the crust of bread.
That is why they decided to remove them
the little ones with the big:
the thirteen-meters-tall pine
and the rose bush hanging on the gate
(every so often a yellowish hand
would take one and bring it to church
and I who didn’t know flowers’ names
would hate that hand because
it tarnished the death of the roses or so I thought).
But maybe that plant was already rotten
in a ditch before the massacre.
Then it was the animals’ turn
the nocturnal eyes of the house:
a hermaphrodite mutt
a cross between a chihuahua and Tina Pica
a twisted idea in the form of a dog.
It would bark to prove to the world
it wasn’t a Mexican fancy
but one octave higher nasty
so you thought of the rebukes howled
by your phlegmy grandmother
drunk on wine and water whose grandson stole her toys.
That grandmother-dog was so brave
as long as she stayed in your arms and from there
called out to armies and camorrists
and how disgusted she was with her own kind
hopeless dogs and with the miserable
sex they offered her.
An available female and a wastrel
in the tête-à-tête with food
the only male that didn’t scare her.
Seeing her die in the throes of a night
the ever-fainter trace of her breath
rippling across her lip above her teeth
deep down in the paralysis of her eyes
open wide with surprise Doggone it I’m dying—
was a kind of practice for the other vigils.
And a pair of cats who lived together more uxorio
(showing themselves in their righteousness like good bourgeois).
He with the Neapolitan face
running under his cheekbones the agile features
of a comedian: you were reading the joy the anguish
the tedium of the all quiet in the desert.
You had never seen a cat so transparent
so unpoetic.
She swollen like a huge tiger-striped beignet
by way of an operation:
she cat-wife-mother he cat-boy
in slippers with few opinions
and no secrets. He died first
she three months later crushed with grief
like Giulietta and Sandra.
Cats teach you how to die:
just watch them play around on the edge of a chasm
stuff themselves and take out loans on the last day
follow the curve to the point of impact
with the moralist coming the other way.
Finally it’s the people’s turn:
the one who had planted the
trees and the roses the so-called gardener
qualified at least at one time
who had nursed the cats’ kittens
and taken the hermaphrodite freak dog for a walk
the sex that called for the last confidence
of the tongue the deflated body of the father
without refuge between the obscene white sheets
the mother’s belly laying on a plank
and there too in those all too human deaths
you didn’t see the will of time
and fate but another that was not
the one tearing out the roses
and not even the one implied by God
no separation no moral
no farewell no peace
not even the suds of eternity
only a contradiction so better to get rid
of everything that is born and makes noise:
people animals plants
eyes mouths words verses
and their clumsy penchant for absence.
Piccole manovre dell’abbandono
Le prime a cadere sono state
le piante
non per volontà del tempo o
del destino
ma del finto giardiniere
che le aveva ficcate nella
terra.
Messe lì per dominare sulla
voragine
del cortile erano ridicole:
uno sbuffo verde
intorno al grigio su quattro
righe di terra
macilenta quattro aiuole
fallite
con un po’ di impegno tombe
di passeri
neanche i vermi ci dormivano
comodi.
Affacciate sull’asfalto in
coda alle automobili
parevano sfottere non si sa
cosa:
la natura la tecnica l’arte
dell’equilibrio.
Ma erano piante vere con la
linfa e foglie
che cadevano davvero e
rinnovavano
il cerchio dell’esistenza i
suoi disegni,
trattandosi di alberi, sempre
concentrici.
Gli uccelli che ci stavano
al riparo
erano veri uccelli con le
piume e il becco
e anche le cicale d’estate
facevano
le loro pernacchie ascellari
che sentivi
fino allo sconquasso del
cuore
nel sonno pomeridiano.
Le piante avevano radici che
spaccavano
l’asfalto: formavano crepe
sulla superficie
come quelle sulla crosta del
pane.
Perciò decisero di
abbatterle
le piccole e le grandi:
il pino di tredici metri
e la pianta di rose
aggrappata al cancello
(ogni tanto una mano
giallastra
ne prendeva una per portarla
in chiesa
e io che non sapevo i nomi
dei fiori
odiavo quella mano perché
sporcava la morte delle rose
o così credevo).
Ma quella pianta forse era
già marcita
in un fosso prima del
massacro.
Poi è stata la volta degli
animali
gli occhi notturni della
casa:
una bastardina ermafrodita
mezza chihuahua mezza tina
pica
un’idea storta a forma di
cane.
Abbaiava per dimostrare al
mondo
di non essere un’invenzione
messicana
ma con un’ottava più alta incarognita
che pensavi ai rimproveri
ululati
dalla nonna catarrosa
ubriaca di vino e acqua a
cui il nipote rubava i giocattoli.
Aveva tanto coraggio quella
nonna-cane
finché ti restava in braccio
e da lì
sfidava gli eserciti e i
camorristi
e che schifo aveva dei suoi
simili
cani senza rimedio e del
sesso
miserabile che le offrivano.
Femmina disponibile e
cialtrona
nel tête-à-tête col cibo
l’unico maschio che non la
spaventasse.
Vederla morire nell’agonia
di una notte
la traccia sempre più debole
del fiato
che le increspava il labbro
sopra il dente
a fondo nella paralisi degli
occhi
sbarrati dalla sorpresa Dio cane sto morendo –
fu quasi un allenamento alle
altre veglie.
E una coppia di gatti
vissuti more uxorio
(tradendosi il giusto da
buoni borghesi).
Lui con la faccia napoletana
scavata sotto gli zigomi i
lineamenti mobili
del comico: ci leggevi la
gioia l’angoscia
la noia del niente di nuovo nel deserto.
Mai visto prima un gatto
così trasparente
così impoetico.
Lei gonfia come un enorme
bignè tigrato
per via di un’operazione:
lei gatta-moglie-madre lui
gatto-ragazzo
in pantofole con poche
opinioni
e nessun segreto. Lui morì
per primo
lei tre mesi dopo schiantata
dal lutto
come Giulietta e Sandra.
I gatti ti insegnano a
morire:
basta guardarli scherzare
sullo sprofondo
abbuffarsi e fare debiti
l’ultimo giorno
seguire la curva fino
all’impatto
col moralista che arriva
contromano.
Infine è toccato agli uomini:
quello che aveva piantato
gli alberi e le rose il
finto giardiniere
competente almeno una volta
chi aveva allattato i figli
dei gatti
e portato a spasso il cane
sgorbio ermafrodito
il sesso che chiedeva
l’ultima confidenza
della lingua il corpo
sgonfiato del padre
senza rifugio tra le
lenzuola bianche oscene
il ventre della madre posata
su un tavolaccio
e anche lì in quelle morti
tanto umane
non ci vedevi la volontà del
tempo
e del destino ma un’altra
che non era
quella che strappava le rose
e neanche quella sottintesa
di Dio
nessun distacco nessuna
morale
nessun commiato nessuna pace
nemmeno una schiuma di
eternità
solo un contraddirsi per
sparire meglio
di tutto ciò che nasce e fa
rumore:
uomini animali piante
occhi bocche parole versi
e la loro maldestra
inclinazione all’assenza.
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